


Oikawa Tooru is Only Human

by weirdmilk



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 3+1 things (lol that's not a tag), Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-04 22:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14029938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdmilk/pseuds/weirdmilk
Summary: During lunch, Oikawa puts his head down on the desk - without even smoothing his hair out beforehand - and looks so miserable that the urge to punch him lessens slightly. Iwaizumi asks, gruffly, ‘You okay?’‘No,’ Oikawa moans, ‘I’m dying.’‘You have a cold,’ Iwaizumi says through gritted teeth, feeling his own head beginning to throb with the kind of repressed rage that only Oikawa can inspire. ‘You’re a baby.’Oikawa coughs sadly. ‘Dying,’ he moans again. ‘Eat my lunch for me, Iwa-chan; there’s no point in me eating anything now. I hear the swish of the scythe.’Three times Oikawa's body failed him, and one time Iwaizumi's did.





	Oikawa Tooru is Only Human

  **Six: The Pox**

Oikawa is small and pretty - a foil to Iwaizumi’s boyish rough-and-tumble, and adults _love_ him. They pick him up and cuddle him and coo at him, telling him he's going to be such a _heartbreaker_! Their interactions with Iwaizumi tend to be more arms-length. They like him too, of course, but in a different way: they tousle his spiky hair, and call him a good big boy, and offer to look at his beetle collection - not read him a story.

He likes his beetles, and he likes to show them off, but he likes being read to as well.

He doesn’t think Oikawa’s that cute anyway. He always takes the last milk bread, and he has quick pinchy fingers that adults never see him using. 

Oikawa is still his best friend, though. He knows that when you have a best friend, you have to love them even if they do have the pinchiest fingers, and the greediest stomachs. So, then, it’s understandable that when Oikawa doesn’t come to school on Tuesday morning, Iwaizumi feels a little bereft.

He plays in the sand with some other boys, but it’s not the same. And he even gets to eat the last milk bread, but he wishes Oikawa was there, even so.

When his mother picks him up, he tells her sadly, ‘Tooru-chan wasn’t here.’

Iwaizumi’s mother clucks her tongue sympathetically, and says, ‘He’s got chickenpox.’

‘Chicken... pox?’ Iwaizumi echoes, frowning. He doesn’t like the sound of that.

‘It’s like a cold, but it makes you itchy,’ his mother tells him, ‘and we’re going to visit him.’

Iwaizumi perks up immediately. Maybe he’ll get to play with Oikawa after all. He wishes he’d saved Oikawa some milk bread.

When his mother lets them in, she smiles down at him and says ‘Hello, Hajime-kun! Oikawa’s in his room!’ She looks over his head, up at his mother. ‘He hasn’t had it yet, right?’ she asks.

‘That’s why he’s here,’ Iwaizumi’s mother responds, and they both laugh.

‘Good luck,’ Oikawa’s mother tells her wryly.

Iwaizumi doesn’t really understand what they’re talking about, but he doesn’t mind. He still gets to play with Oikawa. Maybe it's not such a bad day. 

He trots up the stairs, a trip he's undertaken countless times even at six years old, and pushes open the door without preamble.

Oikawa is sitting up in bed, covered in little pink spots. His face is pink and blotchy too, and his hair is sticking up on his head like a crown. Iwaizumi thinks he looks really stupid.

‘What’s wrong with you,’ he demands.

‘Chicken pox, idiot,’ Oikawa snaps. He scratches at a spot on his arm, glaring mutinously at Iwaizumi as he does so.

‘Gross,’ says Iwaizumi, even though he still doesn’t really know what it is. He just knows that it probably is gross, if Oikawa has it, and it makes him look all spotty and cross.

They glower at each other from across the room until Iwaizumi gets bored and climbs onto the bed with him. ‘Are you coming back to school tomorrow?’ he asks hopefully.

‘No,’ Oikawa says, ‘I have to stay home all week.’

Iwaizumi stares in horror. All week! He has to play without Oikawa for a whole week! ‘Don’t be a baby,’ he tells him, ‘just go to school, it’s fine.’

‘I’m too itchy and my head hurts and I’m hot and sad,’ Oikawa tells him, and his voice is a bit wobbly, like it is when he’s about to cry. He’s sticking his bottom lip out in a pout, and his eyes are enormous in his head.

Iwaizumi’s resolve to stop Oikawa being a baby wavers, and he decides he does feel a bit sorry for Oikawa after all. He does look sick, he supposes, and being sick isn’t a fun way to spend a week.

‘I’ll read to you,’ Iwaizumi says, on a benevolent whim.

Oikawa squints at him suspiciously. ‘You can’t read,’ he says sulkily.

Iwaizumi is enraged - he can read! He can read some characters, anyway. He might not be as good at reading as Oikawa , but he can still _do it_.

‘I’m going to read to you, stupid,’ Iwaizumi hisses, pointing a threatening finger.

‘You’re just going to look at the pictures and make it up!’ Oikawa hisses back, pointing his own finger.

‘That’s still reading,’ Iwaizumi says, scowling. ‘Looking at the pictures counts.’

Oikawa folds his arms. He looks at least seven like that, Iwaizumi thinks. ‘It doesn’t count,’ he says, superior, even though he’s a month younger than him, and doesn’t know anything. Oikawa softens a little, and his arms uncross. ‘But you can do that anyway.’ He looks across at Iwaizumi with his big, brown eyes. Stupid, Iwaizumi thinks firmly.

Iwaizumi still feels cross (he _can_ read!), but he still wants to read to Oikawa. That’s what his mum does when he’s sick, and he _does_ like Oikawa, and more to the point, as soon he feels better, he can come back to school to build sandcastles with him. He sighs and grabs the nearest book - it has a photo of a dog on it - and gets as close to Oikawa as he can. Oikawa makes a pleased noise and snuggles into his side. Oikawa's warmer than he usually is: he can feel radiating heat even through his own t-shirt.

‘Okay,’ Iwaizumi starts, ‘once there was a dog…’

A few pages later, they’re both asleep.

And later, when the spots take over Iwaizumi's body too, and he’s the one who’s hot and itchy and cross, Oikawa climbs onto his bed, too, and reads him the same story about the dog. Iwaizumi feels happy over the itchiness and heat. He doesn’t even mind too much when Oikawa says, ‘Okay, I’ll tell you what this really says, so shut up and don’t talk,’ or when Oikawa stops reading just at the good part in order to steal some of Iwaizumi’s snacks.  


* * *

 

  
**Thirteen : A Mild Cold**  
  
Oikawa has been grumpy all day, and it’s imbibing Iwaizumi with a strong urge to punch him. He keeps sneezing, too, and when he coughs it sounds like there’s an angry bear rattling around in his chest, and Iwaizumi hates him so much.

During lunch, Oikawa puts his head down on the desk - without even smoothing his hair out beforehand - and looks so miserable that the urge to punch him lessens slightly, and Iwaizumi asks gruffly, ‘You okay?’

‘No,’ Oikawa moans, ‘I’m dying.’

‘You have a cold,’ Iwaizumi says through gritted teeth, feeling his own head beginning to throb with the kind of repressed rage that only Oikawa can inspire. ‘You’re a baby.’

Oikawa coughs sadly. ‘Dying,’ he moans again. ‘Eat my lunch for me, Iwa-chan; there’s no point in me eating anything now. I hear the swish of the scythe.’

‘Well, if you insist,’ Iwaizumi says, and makes a grab for Oikawa's milk bread.  As he’d expected, the prospect of losing his milk bread jerks Oikawa out of his cavernous mopey pit, and he shrieks, doubling his hold on it. ‘I’ve licked it!’ he yells, ‘you’ll get my cold!’ He’s sucking at the packet as he shouts, making it wet and slippery, but Iwaizumi isn’t deterred: he will beat Oikawa no matter how dirty he plays. 

Oikawa is long and lithe, but Iwaizumi is dense and strong, and can generally still take Oikawa in a one-on-one wrestle. He starts to prises Oikawa’s fingers from the wrapper, which is going well - the grip is loosening - but his strength is instantly sapped when he feels Oikawa’s horrible, sharp little teeth sinking into his wrist.

Because he can scarcely put up with Oikawa at the best of times, let alone when he’s been the human equivalent of a wet sock all day, he thinks he’d better confirm what happened before killing him.

‘Did... you just bite me?’ he asks slowly.

‘No,’ Oikawa says cheerfully, nose streaming and eyes red.

‘You did!’ Iwaizumi says, incensed. This - this _asshole_ -!

Oikawa cackles and holds his milk bread aloft, as he pulls his back onto his back and goes to stand up. In that moment, Iwaizumi’s soul knows only hatred, and all that hatred knows is Oikawa Tooru.

Iwaizumi grabs his shirt as he goes to run past, and Oikawa makes a wailing noise. ‘No - Iwa-chan, please -’

He readjusts his hold on Oikawa more firmly - so he’s holding him by the waist, and punches his arm repeatedly. Oikawa screams like a girl, Iwaizumi thinks smugly, as he writhes in Iwaizumi’s stronger, superior hold.

As is typical whenever Oikawa needs a school-based beating, the onlookers split into two camps: the girls, on team Oikawa - and the boys, on team Iwaizumi. In truth, Oikawa has the kind of smooth, friendly personality that works with everyone; he’s like human Vaseline. The girls like him because he’s growing tall, and because of his stupid hair, and because he’s the coach’s favourite member of the volleyball team. The boys like him too - respect him, even - because he’s funny and childish and sporty, and - well, all the girls like him. But still: the boys tend to treat Iwaizumi more as one of their own - putting him in headlocks, tripping him up as he walks past, instigating arm wrestling tournaments. That kind of roughhousing is not something Oikawa’s ever been interested in.

The boys are shouting, ‘Kick his scrawny ass, Iwaizumi! Mess up his hair!’

The girls are muttering among themselves, ‘Should we call a teacher? I hope he doesn’t get a black eye -’

‘Any last words, Crappykawa?’ Iwaizumi says, once he’s sitting firmly on top of Oikawa’s wailing, writhing form, with the milk bread wrapper between his teeth.

Oikawa blows him an insolent kiss in lieu of any real last words, but before Iwaizumi can punch him again, Oikawa goes into a coughing fit so violent that it actually dislodges Iwaizumi from where he’s sitting on Oikawa’s chest. He doesn’t _actually_ want to kill him, he admits to himself reluctantly, so he climbs off Oikawa and gives him a hand up.

The coughing fit has left Oikawa looking even more useless than usual, and his eyes are watering. ‘So gallant,’ he says hoarsely, and Iwaizumi feels his chest constrict a little at how pathetic Oikawa looks, gazing up at him underneath from his wet eyelashes. And ugly, he says to himself, quickly, and disgusting -

Oikawa sneezes again, and Iwaizumi sighs, and hands him his milk bread. Oikawa beams at him wetly. Iwaizumi hates him _so_ much.

* * *

  
**Seventeen: Torn ACL**

There’s nothing unusual about practice that day, honestly. Oikawa is, in fact, on good form. He’s playing well, despite his obvious tiredness: he’s sweating; he keeps rubbing his hand over his puffy eyes, sighing.

But, as everyone knows, it’s the most average days that birth the most abnormal moments. 

They’re playing a three on three - on opposite sides of the net - when he sees Oikawa collapse to the ground, as though someone has just powered down his legs. He thinks get up, get up, quick, but Oikawa’s face is turning whiter and greyer, milky and sick - and he knows.

He doesn’t realise he’s moving until he’s on the opposite side, next to Oikawa. Oikawa’s face looks bloodless and waxy - there’s something unreal about its stillness, after years of being used to Oikawa's animated movements. 

‘What happened?’ he hears himself ask, and his voice sounds shaky and bloodless too.

‘Felt something go,’ Oikawa says, whose voice is so calm that it wouldn't trip a spirit level. Iwaizumi knows it's a carefully chosen tone - Oikawa's eyes are flickering all over the room, unstable as a candle in a breeze. ‘I think it’s - my knee -’

Iwaizumi’s heart flips into his stomach, souring it, making it churn. He remembers they aren’t the only people in the room - there are adults here -

As he looks around, Coach Irihata kneels next to the two of them. ‘Sounds like a ligament tear,’ he says, sounding endlessly weary. Iwaizumi thinks that Oikawa probably has that effect on a lot of people. ‘You been overworking it?’

‘ _No_ ,’ Oikawa gasps out through pain-clenched teeth, but Iwaizumi knows he has been - most nights, in fact. The endless thud, thud, thud, of the volleyballs against the walls and floor, the moon a caustic burn in the sky to remind them both that he shouldn’t be there, he should be asleep. He opens his mouth to say this, but Oikawa shoots him a gaze so pleading that Iwaizumi closes his mouth again. He knows what Oikawa’s silence means: he knows what he’s done, and it’s bad. Oikawa whines like a child for bruises, for minor sprains, but when he thinks he’s really fucked up, he’s silent and unreachable. 

Iwaizumi knows that their coach will not for a moment be hoodwinked by Oikawa’s denial. Iwaizumi glances across at him, and their eyes meet for a moment - young, hot panic meeting middle-aged concern, and yes: he knows. He can see it from the way Coach Irihata’s eyes flick between the two of them for a long moment, as though working through invisible calculations, and he can see it when he takes a deep, sighing breath.

‘I’ll take him to the emergency clinic,’ Coach Mizoguchi says, words clipped. He goes to stand up, but Iwaizumi’s first.

‘I’m coming too,’ Iwaizumi says instantly. He sees Oikawa’s shoulders sag in relief, from the corner of his eye.

Coach Mizoguchi looks at Coach Irihata for confirmation, but gets a shrug in response. Just leave them to it, his shoulders seem to say. Iwaizumi feels as though he’s vibrating, in constant motion - a wind turbine in the middle of the gym.

Oikawa obviously can’t stand, so Iwaizumi and Coach Mizoguchi haul him up between the two of them, one on either side. He can hear Oikawa’s breathing coming faster, in desperate, acute gasps of pain, but he’s not complaining, he’s staring straight ahead, as though it will protect him from the reality of the situation.

The rest of the gym is silent, watching like ghosts. He knows that in any other situation, Matsukawa and Hanamaki would be ribbing him for being Oikawa’s second mother, but they look uncharacteristically grim as the convoy limps slowly and awkwardly towards the door. Hanamaki gives him a nod, and Matsukawa grimaces at the look on Oikawa’s face as he passes. The two of them exchange a glance.

They lay Oikawa in the back of the car, leg extended across the seat. It’s a tight fit, and Oikawa’s torso is a little bunched up against the door. Oikawa grabs Iwaizumi’s hand before he goes to sit in the front seat, and whispers soft and tiny, ‘Don’t leave me, Hajime.’ Iwaizumi knows that the use of his given name, too, means that Oikawa is feeling so sideways that he can’t even be bothered to keep up the performance of their push-and-pull.

‘I’m not going anywhere, asshole,’ Iwaizumi says, and he’s relieved to find that his voice is stronger, in the knowledge of this truth. 

* * *

 

**Eighteen : Food Poisoning**

The day of their graduation from Seijoh, Iwaizumi - amazingly - is laid low by undercooked chicken.  
  
He’s not sure he’s ever been so sick in his life. He can’t count the amount of times he’s thrown up in the past 24 hours. After a full day of it, his stomach feels less as though it’s glued to a fairground ride, but he still feels like an orange rind after all the juice has been sucked out.

It’s Thursday afternoon, and he’s drifting in and out of sleep. He thinks he’s over the worst of it, but getting out of bed seems as much of a challenge as climbing Mount Fuji. 

A knock on the door tips him out of his sleepy cocoon. Without waiting for a response, Oikawa throws himself through the door, wearing a mask and carrying a small bag marked with the logo of a local pharmacy. He’s panting, as though he ran the whole way there - his cheeks are flushed prettily over the top of the mask. The light from the hallway illuminates his hair a gentle golden, like a halo. He looks older, somehow, than he had the day before. His shirt is untucked; his blazer is unbuttoned.

‘Iwa-chan!’ he says, slightly muffled from behind cotton, ‘I brought you stuff, but don’t come near me or touch me or breathe while I’m in the room.’

Iwaizumi groans weakly. He’s not sure he has the stomach - literally, or figuratively - for any of Oikawa’s bullshit today. It’s bad enough he’s missed the ceremony; he has to deal with this guy alone?

‘What - are you going to throw up?’ Oikawa asks, panicked, and stepping backwards slightly. Iwaizumi knows Oikawa hates germs with a passion bordering on obsessive. It’s kind of a miracle he’s even here.

Iwaizumi groans again, with feeling, and presses his fingers into his temples. ‘No, you asshole,’ he says, throat raw. ‘Just - what do you have.’

Oikawa scoots a little closer, but still looks like a flight risk. ‘Stomach stuff, ginger, peppermint tea. Just call me Nurse Tooru.’ He gives Iwaizumi a peace sign, and grins for the first time since barging in.

Iwaizumi thinks it’s probably the fact that he’s severely weakened from lack of food, but he thinks that he could kiss Oikawa at that moment, and a lump threatens to overtake his throat for reasons that have nothing to do with his illness. ‘Thanks,’ he says hoarsely, after swallowing a few times. God, he feels shitty.

Oikawa settles gingerly at the bottom of his bed. ‘And something else,’ he says, after a pause. He’s looking kitten-skittish again, fiddling with his sleeve, and Iwaizumi has to remind himself that Oikawa would probably collapse in horror if Iwaizumi punched him with his germ-ridden hand. 

‘We’ve been friends our whole life,’ Oikawa informs him, as though he wasn’t, regrettably, there for the whole thing.

Iwaizumi eyes him balefully, not feeling compelled to respond to such a pointless statement. 

‘You’ve always - been there for me,’ Oikawa continues, which is essentially what he’d just said, so Iwaizumi rolls his eyes without responding. Oikawa likes to take the scenic route to tell him stuff, sometimes. There’s nothing he can do about it other than watch the view pass.

‘And I hate germs, and being here, and you for eating that chicken,’ Oikawa says with feeling, and Iwaizumi can’t help a weak chuckle. ‘But you’d do it for me, so.’ He throws the bag in Iwaizumi’s direction.

‘Nice toss,’ Iwaizumi says feebly. Oikawa laughs too, slightly too pitchy, and runs a hand through his hair. It’s something he does when he’s nervous, and Iwaizumi watches his elegant fingers curl around a strand of hair, tugging gently at an unnoticeable tangle.

‘It’s no big deal,’ Iwaizumi says, trying to dredge up enough energy to keep Oikawa’s often odd, brittle feelings at bay. ‘We’re friends. All the others would do the same for us.’

‘Well, we’re not like them,’ Oikawa says firmly, as though it’s obvious.

Iwaizumi wishes he doesn’t understand what Oikawa means, but in his weakened state he doesn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise.

It comes down to a number of things he’s pretty sure of. He is pretty sure, for example, that Matsukawa has never considered how angelic Hanamaki’s hair looks in the light. He doesn’t think that _they’ve_ accidentally kissed three times sober and once when they were a little drunk on their parents’ saké. He’s almost entirely sure that Kunimi has never watched Kindaichi sleep in gentle, buttery sunlight, thinking God, he's so pretty. He remembers the time that Oikawa collapsed in the gym -  how his first response was to run to him and cradle his head in his lap, even though by the time he reached Oikawa he’d managed to control himself.

Yeah, he knows what Oikawa means.  
  
He thinks he knows why Oikawa’s really here, and he thinks he’s okay with it. If he’s honest, he’s not as surprised as Oikawa might expect him to be. He knows what they are - what they’ve been walking towards, together, since they learned to walk - together. And he's just too tired. 

‘Spit it out, Shittykawa,’ he says, meaning it to come out less fond than it does. Their eyes meet, and something in Oikawa’s face seems to relax at whatever he sees in Iwaizumi’s expression.

Oikawa puts a hand into his white blazer pocket. He brings out a button.

‘I know it’s supposed to be the second one, because it’s the closest to your heart, but we only have three buttons on our blazers and it’s not a gakuran so ...none of them are really that close, so I just bought a button.’

Iwaizumi might pass out. ‘You bought a button? Just one button? To do this?’

‘Yes!’ Oikawa snaps, as though that’s a perfectly reasonable way to procure a single button. ‘I said I only needed one, and she just sold me one.’

Iwaizumi asks, just to see how Oikawa responds, ‘How much did it cost?’

It’s worth it to see Oikawa’s mouth open and close, incensed. He looks as though he’s weighing up whether it would be worth risking the germs in order to punch Iwaizumi. He evidently decides against it, though, opting to keep a safe distance between them. 

Iwaizumi can’t keep it up. He laughs, although his throat still hurts, so he has to force himself to stop. ‘Yeah, yeah, okay, fine, give it here.’

Oikawa’s glare only increases in its threat of violence. ‘I’m not giving it to you until you say something nice.’

Iwaizumi groans for the third time in ten minutes. It must be some kind of record. ‘Oh my God, please just give it here and leave.’

‘I’ll go as soon as you say something nice,’ Oikawa promises. Iwaizumi knows he’s going to shower as soon as he gets home.

Iwaizumi sighs. Oikawa is wearing a bright, snowflake-fragile expression that means he’s trying not to get his hopes up. Moron, Iwaizumi thinks, with hopeless affection. How could you think we’re headed anywhere else?

‘I love you,’ Iwaizumi tells him wearily. He knows it's supposed to be the moment, that he's supposed to feel his heart swell three sizes and angels start singing to him, but in truth it feels like something they’ve been saying in different ways for years. ‘Thank you for the button that’s literally been nowhere near your heart at any point and that you literally just - paid for -’ Shit, he’s laughing again. He clears his throat - which hurts. He probably deserves that.

Oikawa is gaping at him, which Iwaizumi supposes is fair. ‘You - _love_ me?’

‘Yeah, of course,’ Iwaizumi says generously. ‘Even when you do shit like this.’

‘But I love _you_ ,’ Oikawa says, outraged, as though Iwaizumi just licked him. ‘I was going to say it first!’ He opens his mouth, and shuts it, before opening it again and barreling on. ‘And the button thing is classic and romantic, so -’

‘Loser,’ Iwaizumi tells him cheerfully. Oikawa stares at him some more, mouth still open like a hole in a wall.

‘You’ll catch the chicken,’ Iwaizumi says, more gently, even though he’s pretty sure that’s not how you get food poisoning.

Oikawa closes his mouth.

‘Okay, okay,’ Iwaizumi says, apologetic. ‘The button’s nice. Give it here.’

Oikawa wordlessly passes it over, but his cheeks are a little redder, now - the colour of a nice, ripe nectarine.

‘Come back tomorrow and I’ll kiss you,’ Iwaizumi says, enjoying himself, and laughs in delight when Oikawa leaps up like a water-sprayed cat, hands trying in vain to cover the deepening blush covering his entire face and threatening to spill like an ink stain down his neck. He gives Iwaizumi one final blazing look - and laughs, once, slightly hysterically, before leaving the room. And the house, too - Iwaizumi hears the front door slam a few seconds later.

His phone beeps.

 **From: Shittykawa**  
**I’ll come back tomorrow (*ﾟｰﾟ)ゞ**

Iwaizumi puts his phone back under his pillow. His stomach feels as though it’s stapled to a carousel, again, but this time? He thinks it might turn out better than eating uncooked chicken.

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like everyone will know this, but if not: there's a japanese tradition of men giving their second button to a love interest when they graduate
> 
> (also that people purposefully infect their children with chickenpox because it's so much worse as an adult) (everyone knows that though, right?)
> 
> tumblr@ weirdmilk


End file.
